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Ch. 9: The Father of Dragons
(Return to Arheled) “I love this weather.” murmered Brooke lazily as she stretched out on the beach. The air was soft and delicate and warm, despite the steady breeze coming off Highland Lake. Now and again a motorboat would roar past, sometimes towing a tube on which shrieking young girls tried to cling, and then after a while waves comparable to a minor ocean would crash and boom most excitingly upon the narrow sand. Kids were splashing and throwing sand at each other, and a very pretty teenage girl with dark hair was climbing all over her boyfriend. It was perfect essence of summer. A couple of nice-looking boys were coming up the road toward her now, towels thrown over bare bronzed shoulders. Brooke put on her sunglasses so she could covertly check them out without being too obvious about it. They had nice chests and really good muscles. She liked the way their hairy but strong-looking legs swung when they walked. It made her heart skip a beat or two when they parked their gear right beside her. “Hey, good-lookin’.” drawled the taller one. The voice sounded a little familiar, but when she looked at his face she decided she was mistaken: this hot hunk of beef was a stranger. She gave him a shy but warm smile and pushed back her glasses so he could see her eyes. “Hi.” she greeted. “This seat’s not taken, I hope?” chuckled the other guy. “If you can call a patch of really rough sand a seat, that is.” Brooke retorted. They laughed and sat down. Next to her. “So, what’s your name?” the first boy said, flashing a smile. She decided he had a really cute mouth. “I’m Jeff and this is Kibba. We call him that because he’s always kidding.” “Hey, I thought it was because I like chibba.” “Chibba??” Brooke echoed, amused. “Yeah, it’s kind of a nickname for sugar in our gang. ‘Please gimme da chibba.’ ‘More chibba, you niggaa.’” said Jeff. “You’re re''tarded,'' man!” Jeff proceeded to say in a Christopher Lee voice, “Mighty Jabba, I have chibba.” He added in the falsetto of the Hutt’s protocol droid, “The most wise Jabba demands to know if the chibba is sweet.’ “ ‘It is as sweet as your baby’s breath.’ “’The most clever Jabba accuses you of lying!’” All three of them were laughing like old friends. “Hey, you forgot to have Jabba saying Beechee noo gongwanga glug or whatever, in between!” Brooke gasped. “Well, I don’t speak Hutt!” They had a wonderful time in the water, although both the boys did have a tendency to put hands on practically any part of her anatomy when horsing around, unless sharply reprimanded, but she didn’t really mind. It was all part of the fun. “Hey, um, you doing anything later?” Kibba wanted to know, when they were relatively alone due to Jeff swimming out to the buoy. Brooke’s heart started pounding. Maybe she might actually have a boyfriend this year. “Not really.” she said invitingly. “Well, would you, um, want to go out with me?” A pleased smile came over Brooke’s face. “Sure. I’d love to. What did you have in mind?” “Well, Jeff’s having folks over later, so how about we grab a movie and hit one of the bars, then party at his place? He lives right on the lake.” “I’m 16!” Brooke giggled. “That’s all right. I’ve got some friends of my old man over there, and they won’t card you unless you look really young.” “Well, I suppose I could lay on the makeup a bit.” Brooke said archly. He stopped by the Grange hall at 3:00; right on time, too, that was a plus. His car was pure muscle: small, fast, and flashy red. With flame decals on the sides. She felt a wild thrill at the thought of stepping out of a car like that with everyone watching—even better if Delilah and Julian were among them. They drove down Boyd Street and into Winsted, then over the hill to the cinema. Until last year it had been named Cinerom, but now new owners had it and called it Mallory Brook Cinema, a big box of a movie building with a square front, all glass. As it was an earlier show there were only a few people in line and they got tickets to “Thor” quite quickly. She nixed the popcorn; it got in her teeth and crunched when you really wanted to hear what somebody was saying, but she did let him buy her a soda and Skittles. It was a lovely experience, watching a somewhat lousy movie with a guy putting his arm around her and touching her—though she had to slap him once or twice when his hand started trespassing with intent to rob—even if his caresses were distracting. The movie was OK, but she was a little displeased with science-fiction technology in Asgard, which was supposed to be all medieval and Norse. Hiemdall and the awesome armour and sword, and the mysterious things he said while guarding the Bifrost, were the best part. And of course seeing Thor’s really good muscles. Although he was quite a beefcake, she still didn’t like his power being only the Hammer and thought he adapted to modern life and Christian ethics a little too smoothly. She hated the weak portrayal of senile Odin. Odin was supposed to be dreadful. The frost-giants looked like Orcs and were much too small. And the ending was the lamest thing she’d seen in a long while: a dumb invulnerable Asgard machine throws the gods around who aren’t even gods really but just immortals with magic weapons. “I really hate a god who never uses godly powers.” she said as the credits rolled. “Well, they have limits, you know. I like it best that way. God-moding is anathema on Runescape.” “That’s stupid. They’re '' gods'', for crying out loud! They’re supposed to be in full god mode! What’s the good of a god with limits? I want that, I’ll go watch a superhero movie.” “I don’t know…I like the idea that even a god is limited.” “Gods exist in order to do battle with each other.” she retorted. “It’s no fun when they never use any power.” Afternoon was drawing to a hot, smoky close when they got out. Brooke was still happily criticizing every little detail of the movie, but Kibba didn’t seem to care much, as if the movie had only been an excuse to fondle her. They parked on Main Street wherever they could find a spot—some way down from their intended destination—and sure enough there happened to be a group of young folks walking by and goggling at the car at just that moment, and Julian was one of them. Brooke gave a smug, saucy wave. They walked up Main St where it curved round northwards on the west leg of its’ horseshoe loop through the Winsted valley. They strolled along under the awnings of the close-set storefronts, holding hands, which Brooke thought was really sweet, until they came to a string of bars and restaurants. He took her into one. It was dim and almost purplish after the brilliant though hazy sun, and other men were jostling elbows with very pretty and heavily-made-up girls at the bar. After he got them drinks he took her to a table in the back, where they could barely be seen. “This has been such an exciting day.” she exclaimed, bouncing a little in her seat. “The fun’s just beginning.” he said with an odd smile. Lifting his glass he clinked it to hers. “Cheers.” he grinned. Brooke giggled and tried to slug it all down in one sitting the way he was doing, but it stung and made her eyes bulge and water and her head flush and swim gloriously, and she choked for a minute or two. “Wow!” she gasped. “What’s in that thing?” “Hey, you saw him mix it.” “I know.” Brooke said a little woozily. It seemed hard to form clear words. The whole bar was full of a lovely golden haze. She burped, and giggled feebly when he came over beside her and began kissing her. It felt so sweet, to have a boy kiss her like this, to feel his hands on her, undoing her shirt…She felt air on her skin. They were lying twined in each other’s arms on a soft blanket on a patio in the yard of some rich house. Dimly she realised that she was naked, but nothing mattered, nothing mattered but him, and now he was carrying her, there was a fresh hot smell….how nice, he was going to give her a bath in a hot tub. When the water touched her, a queer feeling came through her. It was a little frightening, to feel the water on her body and her body panting and lusting like an animal, while her mind floated, disembodied, unable to do anything except watch. She wanted to be wet all over, to have hot bubbles in her hair, and with a squeal she wriggled out of his arms and ducked under. She felt the water in her, all through her, hot and shocking as if she was stabbed with burning ice. Skin and fluid merged together; she was one with the water, she was back inside her body, cold, furious, and sane. She lunged to her feet with a gasp. “Hey, hey, what’s the matter, baby?” Kibba crooned. With a quick, angry motion Brooke vaulted out of the tub and stood, naked but for soap bubbles. “You drugged my drink!” she shouted. “Well, hey, it might’ve been a little strong but I—“ “Where are my clothes?” she stormed. “What place did you drag me off to, you dirty sick creep? Where the hell are my clothes?! How dare you get me doped up and date-raped like that, you God-damned whore-boy and son of a bitch?” A strange laughter was shaken out of her captor. He rose out of the tub, bubbles sliding down his splendid gleaming maleness, and his face was changing before her eyes, and she knew him. “Curses, from a Christian. Curses that are truer than you think. You haven’t been raped. You don’t have the slightest conception of rape. Up to now you’ve only been seduced.” He stood exposed before her, but she was so angry she only noticed a grosser detail in his shape. “You sassy little brass, shaking your pretty (top) and your cute (stern) at me, you wanted it, oh yes you wanted it, pretend all you want. You are on our Island now, and I have you, river-bitch. I am Kevin!” Instantly Brooke broke her stare. She remembered all too well what had happened the last time. The breeze off the lake suddenly felt cold on her wet skin. A broad smile crossed the revealed face of Kevin. “So you’ve learned, Brookie. Does it surprise you that dragons have many different powers? To change our faces is almost boring.” “Will you at least get my freakin’ clothes, you pervert?” Kevin climbed out of the tub. His gaze, foiled by her refusal to make contact, rested on her lower regions. “I’ll think about it.” he said sweetly. You’re so lovely the way you are. You’re going to be here for quite a while, so you may as well get used to doing whatever you’re told.” Brooke threw a dark glance at the nearby lake. Boats roared back and forth. “A scream will set me free in moments.” “Assuming that they can hear you.” Kevin laughed. “Go ahead, Brookie. Scream. Run around like a streaker. See for yourself just how safe you are here.” Somehow Brooke had not the smallest doubt he was telling her the truth. “Your clothes are in the hall.” Kevin said unconcernedly. She darted for the door and sprang inside. He was climbing back in the tub and paid her no further attention. Scrambling into her clothes Brooke hurried through the rooms with their fake-homestead décor and dark woodwork, threw open he front door and found herself facing a driveway under tall tossing white pines. She sprinted up it. A rolling curve or two shut out the dark-brown house completely. The island had once been a long stony hill, before the dam was thrown across the overflow of the Sluncha and the Long Lake raised twelve feet, drowning the glacial terraces around its’ shores. Ahead the island narrowed to a causeway that carried the drive across; young trees grew on the steep sides and walled it with green. Brooke broke into a desperate run. She caroomed off a firm, unyielding barrier like an invisible trampoline and crashed to the ground. It hurt. Moaning she sat up and discovered several painful scrapes. She picked gravel out of them and felt along the barrier. “Don’t waste your time, Streamy.” Kevin had appeared out of nowhere in front of her. “As far as you’re concerned, there’s a glass ceiling around this entire shore. Outside it, you don’t exist. And what does not exist cannot be seen—or heard.” Without warning his naked backside became a huge tail and slammed into her. Brooke collapsed as if she was made of cardboard, tears starting from her eyes. It felt like a baseball bat in the stomach. “You’re mine—until Cornello comes for you tonight. Then there will be only Five to walk the Road, and Winchester Center will be abandoned to us as Pleasant Valley in the east already is.” “The Weird Sisters hold the Valley.” choked Brooke. This time the tail hit her in the side. She started to cry from the pain; she could not believe that hadn’t broken some bones. “You think the Three Sisters will help you in the end? You will only join the hills of bones of others before you who thought the same. And I didn’t give you leave to speak.” The prehensile fin at the end of the tail pulled her upright by her hair. Brooke cried in earnest, not just from the pain but from the furious helplessness of her situation. “You must do as you are told, or I will have to teach you. Now take off your clothes, and come have a bath with me.” Brooke punched at his face. At the last second his face transformed, for an instant, into a long ragged muzzle dark with scales. Her hand smashed into solid metal and went limp, and she cradled it with a shuddering gasp. “How many fingers did you break?” he said almost conversationally. “I’m pretty sure I heard two. Now we can do this the easy way, Brooke, and you can have the time of your life, or the hard way. One way or another, you’re gonna lay me today.” “I’ll take the hard way.” said Brooke with difficulty. “You Christians.” sighed Kevin. There was a blast of withering heat from his hands. She screamed. The tattered rags of her clothes, still smouldering at the edges, fluttered and fell from her reddened flesh. “You see, I’m very good at these flames.” said Kevin eagerly. “It took some precision, let me tell you, to burn off the cloth and keep the flesh from anything worse than sunburn. Now you’re gonna have some fun.” His prehensile tail carried the struggling girl back to the hot tub. He climbed in and lowered her into the water. With all her injuries it stung and seared, and Brooke screamed again. She was desperately, furiously angry. “If you would only stop fighting me, this would be so much more fun for you.” murmered the creature in her ear, as its’ horrid human hands crawled up her. “My God, my God, help me!” Brooke screamed. The dragon laughed in her ear, a low tickling sound. “Oh, he won’t, He won’t. Countless virgins are despoiled every day across the world, but He never acts. He comforts them after the damage is done, but he lets them suffer anyway. Your prayer should be rather Eloi, Eloi.” He held her close. “Soon you will be among their number.” Brooke’s entire being seemed to be condensed into the sense of touch. The burns and breaks and bruises, numbing now. The dragon’s hands, cold, slimy. The water surrounding her skin. Time seemed to be slowing as her violated being recoiled in loathing; she felt again that the water outside her was no longer separate but fused with her skin. It was not outside her. It was her. She was merging with water and water was curing every scrape and bruise and burn. She was affining with the water. It had affinity with her. The dragon crashed to the ground a hundred feet away, followed by a thudding rain of fragments of hot tub. She stepped out of the wreckage, robes of foamy water sheathing her nakedness in a silky smooth wetness. He was entirely in dragon’s shape now, and his eyes glowed balefully at her as he shot forth a vomit of flame. The hot tub’s water sprang upward, and a square shield of held liquid broke the fire-blast. “What happens to water when it boils?” the dragon’s voice, like Kevin’s mingled with burning wood, laughed at her. The shield shredded into steam, and Brooke’s robes leaped up to replace it. Suddenly the fire ended: Kevin had to draw breath. Brooke fled barefoot over rocks and roots of pines, down to the seawall that edged Big Island, and the dock on its’ east shore, several boats tied to it. Third Bay stretched away before her, a long rough oval about a half mile long, inaccessible, cut off by the unseen wall. The dragon appeared. She was trapped. A steep brushy hillside rose at her back. The dragon sat upon the path to the dock. She couldn’t plunge into the lake, for the unseen barrier rose from the seawall, and she was leaning on it. “You can only call to water you are touching.” the dragon’s voice echoed. “When the water you are wearing dries up, you will be at my pleasure once more; but I will not make the mistake of putting you in water again.” He advanced. His prehensile tail circled around from behind. The scaley, flexible features, still bearing some odd resemblance to Kevin in their set and expression, breathed hot air into her face. Brooke leaned upon the barrier, shoving frantically. All that water, so near at hand! Waves chuckled among the stones of the seawall and sloshed along the docks, jostling the boats and jet-skis. Water, acres of water, churned and ploughed and tossed about by boats and swimmers, and she couldn’t reach it, couldn’t reach out to it. The dragon’s flames were beating on the skin of water she was holding round her, until it scalded her and she let it go with a yelp, lifting it like a shield before his flames. A shield steadily shrinking. His tail snaked around her and knocked her feet from under her, and she was dragged off, borne away once again, helpless despite her new power. Words she half-remembered from ages back in winter’s cold came now, unbidden to her mind, and she reached out, reached out with tremendous, desperate strength, reaching out to all that water shut away from her: '' “Ando Lemenka!” '' The stone of the island began to shudder underneath the dragon’s feet. He paused halfway up the rock stairs, sniffing the air. The vibration grew and mounted, as if the very foundations of Club Island shook upon their moorings. Slowly Kevin turned to look behind him. Screams mounted up from all around. Slowly, rising like a tilted pan, like a pancake being pried from its’ pan, Third Bay was standing on its’ head. The far end was tilting up, tilting higher, a huge slab of single water rising like a standing sea, breaking off from docks and bushes, shedding boats and tubes and swimmers like leaves. Water poured in a weird rain from the hanging edges and the quivering underside of the solid lake, fish and boats and people falling into the muddy sand and weedy bottom. Higher still the Long Lake rose, a hill of water steep as a house-roof and half a mile high, boats skidding crazily across its’ surface, poised edge-on above the Island. So shocked was Kevin he actually dropped Brooke. She rose to her feet, naked, dripping and terrible as some pagan water-goddess, her face ablaze with the might of the Long Lake. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” breathed the dragon. Like the fall of the sky the solid lake descended as a single mass of water against the unseen barrier of magic. Straining it held for a short moment, but the power of the Long Lake was too great for it, and suddenly the enchanted wall splintered like ice, and water thundered down upon Kevin. He tried to teleport, but the living water was destroying his magic, and Brooke held him by the tail, and she was one with the lake and he would have had to take the whole lake with him; and with the strength of the lake she was stronger than him. He glowed as hot as white metal as he emitted dragon-flame sufficient to melt the stone around him like butter; but the lake was mightier than he, and as the endless flood cannoned down his fires sputtered and were gone, and his magic was hammered out of him, until he snapped back to the form of Kevin, and the lake crushed his very bones into pulp. The insane flood ceased to pour. Down out of the woods and hill-slopes around the western sides of Third and Second Bays the Lake returned, a raging sheet, taking with it trees and houses, cabins and cars. There was a growl as part of the Sucker Brook Dam collapsed; but the berm of rocks was too strong to be breached. Soon the dry lake had filled back up, crashing with ruin upon the other side. Rivers still roared out of the yards and woods, and the wreckage of countless boats stuck like fins out of the brown water. Wails and shouts went up from all directions. Giant waves slapped back and forth in all directions, slowly settling. Still Brooke stood, water streaming from her hair, naked save for a rippling robe of brown water that sheathed her like a fish as far as the armpits, upon the bones of Club Island. House and buildings were blasted away to the very roots, and their foundations too had shattered and been taken, and ancient pines had snapped like matches, or been undermined and thrown like spears. A few whose roots had gripped the living rock still stood, their stems smashed of branches, bark and even outer layers of wood, like ragged white fishbones jutting from bare stone. Neither causeway nor soil remained upon the stone hillock rising from the lake. Even the seawalls had been blasted away. Strong’s Island behind it, a conical hill once crowned with a yellow house, had suffered a similar fate, and so had most of the Sucker Brook shoreline. As sirens began to wail and police and emergency vehicles began accumulating behind washed-out roads, Brooke Pond, Child of the Streams, walked off the island, stumbling but erect, as if groggy with sleep or deep drink. The water held like rubber under her feet. Across Second Bay she walked, north to where Wintergreen Island stood, untouched by the flood as it was under the Road. There they saw her, Forest, and Bell, and Hunter Light, and Chrissy Lake, walking over the water and clad in the water, shining with a queer silver-clear twinkle like light on mountain streams. Mr. Light reached out his hand, and she took it, and stepped onto shore. Then Brooke collapsed as the Lake let her go, and her water-robes splashed onto the ground and flowed away. Forest raced off and grabbed a sheet off the line, and Mrs. Lake folded it around Brooke, and Mr. Light and Forest lifted her up and carried her inside. Ronnie Wendy pedaled wearily up the last hill of Mountain Road and stopped to rest at the crossroads. Mountain Rd curved on left toward the interior of the Winchester upland, while up from the right mounted the street connecting it with the shore road. He wiped his forehead. The water was going to feel so good when he got into it. A queer deep rumbling began to vibrate through the earth and air around him. He could actually feel it in his feet. Hastily Ronnie glanced at the sky: thunder? But the only clouds were a few fair-weather ones. Still the earthrumble grew, like a hundred dump trucks all in bottom gear at once, coming from below him. From the bowl valley of Highland Lake. Ronnie stood in complete incomprehension, holding to his bike, atop the hill. It looked like a low, dark cloud rising up behind the trees, and the rumble was mingled with a splashing roar like a hundred waterfalls. A huge gray mass was rising up, ponderously, steadily, like a vast cliff growing from the middle of nowhere, a cliff streaming rain. He stood rooted to the spot. His eyes told him what it was and he still could not make his mind believe it. It was water. The lake itself was lifting from its’ bed. Higher and higher the slab of water rose, now standing like some king of mountains above the valley, its’ quivering underside streaming water, its’ edges a ragged fringe of shedding water that ran on down the underside of the mass, swirling and squirming, yet held in place by some unseen force. Boats and floatables fell off the edges to smash upon the sand and mud and weeds as Ronnie raced down to the shore to get a better look. Half a mile overhead it now towered, filling the sky like a monstrous cloud, and the rain cascaded about him and he was soaked to the skin but he paid no attention, he was too absorbed in the tremendous sight of the whole Third Bay standing as if peeled up by a spatula. Then the sky descended. With a sound that overwhelmed his mind the lake poured itself forward, that single mass of water descending in titanic unimaginable force and majesty upon the far end of the Bay. The earth rocked and cracks split in the shuddering asphalt, throwing him and his bike off their feet. His ears were filled, assaulted by the violence of sound that filled air and earth and left no room for thought or feeling. The rain ceased. He saw the mass sink beneath the trees that rose between him and the lake (an opening on the left afforded view of the dry bed) and hurried down the right-hand branch of the T intersection, which met at a hill, till he got to the yard of a cottage with a “for sale” sign that stood on a high slope with a wall dropping to the lake. He was in time to see a glimpse of a great cone of brown water pouring its’ last vestiges upon the far end, and the lake bottom littered with boats and docks and flapping fish and people trying feebly to rise. And then the brown tide fell back out of the trees across the lake, and huge walls of mud-like water shot in from three or four directions, meeting with a mighty clap and falling apart, and great waves of opaque brown smashed against the shore. Houses broke. Cabins fell. Shores, undermined, poured in ruin into the flood. Unclean-feeling soupy water engulfed Ronnie and tried to pull him out of the tree he had swarmed, and then fell back, the high bank defeating its; violence. Ronnie jumped down with a squelch. His bike had been lifted but caught by a fence, but his sack with what few cans he’d gathered on the way here, was gone out to sea. The white cottage leaned crazily outward, the first floor windows broken: its’ foundations were gone. A parked car was slewed round across the road, and half a pine tree projected from its’ windshield. Down below, great waves chopped and chased in every direction, and streams still drained in from the yards, but it was a lake once more. Ronnie biked back over the high hump where the shore road meets the cutover road to Mountain Rd, and down to the state land where he picked blueberries. Trees were washed over the road and brown mud covered everything to an astonishing height. He climbed up above the rocky shore where a really fun rope swing had been until town goons cut it down last year: entire sections of road were washed out, and great deltas of mud buried others. Cabins floated in the lake or lay about in splintered heaps. The worst damage was at the Sucker Brook Bay. Only a few segments of asphalted road remained intact: the rest was washed out. Trees were snapped off or bent at all angles. Huge piles of shattered planks and household debris lay everywhere, marking the graves of cabins. One stone chimney stood up out of the water, the land around it either washed away or undermined, like a warning finger. Great channels had been gouged in the earth and water still ran sullenly down them. A big slump scarred the face of the stone berm, but the dike remained unbreached. What few houses were strong enough to stand unshivered bore boats in their roofs or trees stuck through them like javelins. And where the islands had been—there was nothing. Only a few bare mounds of scoured rock still rose out of the water, brown-yellow from ages beneath the soil, white needles of stripped trees standing stark as bones here and there. A mailbox with Cornello’s name, half buried in mud, was the only trace of its’ former habitation. A gleaming star was moving slowly across the lake, a star on the water. He found it impossible to round the cove, there was so much mud and wreckage and canyons. In the end he carried his bike up the tumbled rocks on the face of the berm, past the great slump and around through the woods, skirting the worst of the damage. A hill rose here, and the lake’s violence, after gouging it fiercely, was spent on its’ heights. He was able to descend to the shore road north of “Janet’s Corner”, a sharp turn just north of Sucker Brook bay. The road was still pitted and washed out, and he had to avoid mudslides and the odd boat, but soon he was crossing the bent bridge of Wintergreen Island. Forest opened to his knock. The boy’s strange, pale face was grave. “It was Brooke.” he said. Illumination suddenly came upon Ronnie. “She affines with water.” he said. “Of course. But—why? What happened?” “We don’t know.” said Forest. “She’s inside. She won’t wake up.” He looked at Ronnie with stunned eyes. “She came across the water.” “Gleaming like a star?” “She was wearing the water.” said Forest. “Nothing else. She looked—like a water goddess. And she came on shore and just—fell down.” “Let me see her.” said Ronnie. She was stretched out on Bell’s bed, her hair spread out to dry like a net of damp gold. They had managed to dress her in some of Mrs. Lake’s things. Mrs. Lake was fidgeting around the room, here there and everywhere, wringing her hands and bumping into things. “Oh, Ronnie, that’s right.” she said a little distractedly. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do. The phones are all down and our cell phones have no service, and the bridge is damaged so we can’t drive on it—oh, what should we do, what should we do…” Hunter Light looked at Ronnie helplessly. With a sigh Ronnie made her sit down. “You can stay in one place,” he said, “that might help. Hunter, I think you and I had better go grab some rope and head down—the cabins south of you are pretty much gone and there’s a lot of rescue work. There’s nothing you can do for Brooke. In fact, I think calling the police for her would be the worst thing you can do.” “Why? They can help her at the hospital—“ Ronnie stared him in the eye. “She called up the lake.” Mr. Light couldn’t say a word. “You saw it, didn’t you, the whole lake peeling up and standing on its’ head? You saw the water smash itself upon Club Island and wipe it from the earth? Do you think they will let her alone after this? You know who lives on that island. You know how important he is.” “Cornello.” whispered Hunter Light. Ronnie got up and went over to the bed. He put his hand upon her brow. Brooke stirred but did not awake. “Come here, Forest.” said Ronnie. “Do you See anything?” Forest gazed at his friend of the Road for a long time. “She isn’t here.” he said in a faint voice. “She’s lost…she’s wandering on roads I cannot follow…and I cannot see where she is.” Ronnie lifted his hand away, and there was a great weariness in his eyes. “Come on, Hunter.” he said. “Let’s see if we can be of more use down in the ruins. Forest, Bell, keep an eye on your mom and don’t let anyone in! Especially the police. This house is under the Road, so unless they have permission they will not be able to enter.” Bell nodded. They left her speaking soothingly to Mrs. Lake, and getting some rope headed out on foot. Forest went to the door with them, and stood looking after them, watching. “We could drive, but the bridge is broken.” said Hunter. “I noticed.” Ronnie said dryly. “It’s not too far. We can walk.” “It is interesting, isn’t it, how dependent we are on our vehicles.” Mr. Light mused as he walked in his stiff, ponderous gait beside Ronnie. “I mean, I don’t even have a bike, and I never think about what happens if I have no car. And then something like this comes and foom—everyone’s caught flat-footed.” They found the road blocked by a line of yellow tape long before Janet’s Corner and were prevented from going any closer by several supremely confident and suspicious policemen, who started questioning them about what they’d seen. Ronnie would only say he heard a giant crash and came to find it already over. “Tornado?” he suggested. When the cop started asking his name, address, date of birth and if he had any outstanding warrants, Ronnie protested they just wanted to help rescue their trapped neighbors. “What are you asking all this for?” “It’s standard procedure, sir, in case we need to gather evidence. Now I’m going to ask you again. What’s your name?” “Robert White.”” said Ronnie, looking out to the piles of shattered cabins where children and entire families for all he knew might be buried. A few firemen and emergency personnel were trying to dig in wreckage, while an incredible amount of able-bodied policemen were gathered in a group and not doing anything but turning back neighbors. “Can you let me pass? My friends are trapped in there!” “I’m sorry, sir, but it’s just too dangerous for civilians. We’re going to be evacuating Highland Lake while we assess the situation. Properly trained rescue personnel only are authorized beyond this point. Now, your date of birth, Mr. White?” “July 14th, 1979.” This was exactly one year and five days wrong. “So how old are you?” “Thirty-one.” sighed Ronnie. Never deviate too far from the truth; that way you won’t forget. “Do you have ID?” “I don’t commonly carry my wallet when hurrying to rescue trapped neighbors.” The sarcasm was wasted on the officer. “Do you have a phone?” “No.” Ronnie answered at once. “How’d I know '' that'' would be the answer.” muttered the cop. “And what’s your address?” “75 Mountain Rd.” “Very well, let me just run a quick check to see if you have any outstanding warrants.” and he began speaking tersely into his radio that he wanted a check on Robert White, echo-echo-fox-wholemeaninglesslistofcodewords. Helicopters were landing at the Sucker Brook Dam now, and men in uniform—presumably rescue workers—were hurrying to the scene. Ronnie frowned. Why were they ignoring the ruins—and sweeping in a widening ring outwards? He looked at the police car. Behind the tinted windows the close-cropped head of the cop was bent over the computer screen fixed to the dashboard, like the maleficed mirrors that magicians used. He glanced briefly up at Ronnie, the cold eyes like a flicker of ice, and back at his screen. They were not looking for survivors. They were beginning a manhunt. They were hunting down the Children of the Road. He began to move slowly away. If he got into that yard, he could escape up the mountain. In the car there was a frantic scrambling motion: the policeman was going for his gun and trying to open the door at the same time. He had photoed Ronnie, and Cornello had recognized it. Ronnie did not question how he knew this: his power was to reveal, and he knew it with deadly certainty. Ronnie Wendy broke into a run. He heard and ignored the shouts. As the bullets began to come he dived behind a cabin that had sustained only minor damage, and scrambled into the forest. Behind him he could see, converging inexorably, the scattered lines of the enemy. They knew whom they were hunting. Could he make it to the Island, or was it already under siege? Stumbling, scrambling, Ronnie hurried on uphill. He was no good at long running. Soon they would come in sight, and then he would fall, riddled by bullets, the Hill of the Road destroyed by the servants of the Dragons. He dropped into a hollow behind a big rock and frantically scraped leaves over himself. Panting shouts and crashing feet sounded horribly near. He pulled leaves over his face and tucked in his arms. Running men sprang over the rock, as he had expected, and their side vision registering no hiding places they hurried on past and were gone. Wait, Ronnie told himself. Others could be following, more crafty than their fellows, expecting him to pop out and bolt like a scared rabbit when its’ foes are safely past. He felt a sudden gust of hot wind. A queer smell, like metal and fire, rushed about him, overpowering the earthy reek of old wet leaves. A continuous dragging sound and scraping but very heavy footfalls—what devilry was this? A monstrous shape crossed the tiny field of his vision through holes between leaves. There was a harsh huge snuffling. And then a woman’s voice, rich and melodious, and yet harsher, and huger, and somehow more scorched than human vocal cords could produce, spoke just above him. “Well, Ronmond Wendtho, I smell you and I feel your heat. I hear your heart. Come out from those leaves before the ticks eat you alive.” Her voice deepened to a fiery hiss. “Or I will make that your cremated grave.” A cold wet smell filled Ronnie’s nose. He pulled his face with a groan out of the floor of a cave. That it was a cave he saw at once when he looked around; but the walls and roof gleamed a pure metallic yellow, beautiful and pure. Gold. The cavern was made of gold. Other details slowly came to him as he shook off his grogginess. The pebbles and stones littering the floor and lying against the walls were colorful, deep brilliant pure hues, red and orange and translucent blue, and deepest emerald green, and amethystine purple. As if it was paved with gems. Lying on the bright rocks was Travel Lane, bound hand and foot. He tried to rise to his feet and discovered that he suffered from a similar impediment. “Travel?” he croaked. “Ron?” she murmered, turning over. “Oh gosh. They’ve got you too?” “Nabbed me in a manhunt.” he said. “How’d they get you?” “I got a phone call from one of my friends. Said he’d meet me downtown, but the second I got out my driveway….this woman appeared in my passenger seat, grabbed my hand and suddenly we were here.” “I hope you put up a fight.” “Tried.” sniffled Travel. She blew her nose on her sleeve. “Suddenly she wasn’t…human anymore. Ronnie, am I dreaming? Is this some long awful nightmare? '' She was a dragon!” “And what, may I ask, makes you think you must be dreaming, simply because you see dragons?” a deep rich female voice purred from the shadows. A young woman with skin as golden as the wall she had been leaning on, detached herself from the depths and strolled over to them. Her strap top was small, so were her shorts. Her golden hair flowed gorgeous around her face, but two black sunglasses stared like holes where eyes should be. It was abominable. It was like gazing at a skull. “Is seeing dragons akin to seeing pink elephants? Are you tripping out right now, or suffering from a hallucinogenic trance? Or perhaps a computer-animated virtual reality? How are you to know, hmm?” “You.” said Ronnie through his teeth. “The girl from Case Mt. The whore Cornello keeps in his pocket. What, might I ask, do you want with us?” “What do I want? If I am indeed his, you should be asking what does ''he want with you. You will not be slain. Nor will you be enslaved. Kevin tells me you broke through his spell. But can you break through mine?” She lifted her sunglasses and showed him her naked eyes. Travel Lane gave a screech that resounded throughout the cave. The dragon-woman paused in the act of shifting shape, half girl and half monster. “What is gotten into you? I haven’t even looked at you yet.” “''Mother!!”'' Travel shrieked. “Mother!!” Mrs. Lane stood, frozen, her dragon-eyes suddenly alarmed. “Don’t call me that.” she snapped. “But you are.” Travel cried. “You walked out of my life seven years ago. I know you. Do not dare to deny it!” Mrs. Lane tore her eyes away. “I stopped being your mother a long time ago.” she said, her voice filling with fire. “You don’t get it, little girl. I am not human any longer. I am dragon!” Travel Lane collapsed before the withering stare of the dragon’s eyes. Filling the cave, sinuous and serpentine, the dragon bent her head down until it was almost touching Travel’s. “And you are not my daughter.” It was another crummy day at McDonald’s, thought Lara Midwinter as she wearily rang up another order and tried to muster up another fake smile for the next customer. The line was almost at an end, she was glad to see. Ringing up the order she made change for the last customer with a certain satisfaction. “Thank God, that looks like it for the supper hour.” Heather said. The air conditioners were old and often couldn’t compete with the heat from the food warmers and stoves. “I hate customers.” “Now remember, all of you, the customer is always wrong.” Lara said in a mincing voice, misquoting the latest pep-speech the big boss had given to all the employees a week ago. Heather howled with laughter. James, coming in to sweep the front counter floor, gave them an odd look. “Yeah, I mean, serious, some little old guy wanted his burger—how was it—‘lettuce, tomato, mayo, and no bun.’” “Here she comes, on the run, with a burger in a bun.” James sang. It was a TV jingle from who knows when, Lara had found out. “That is so corny.” she said. “Hey, didn’t you know McDonald’s uses corn in everything? In the buns—fed to chickens—fed to cows—“ “Here she comes, on the run, with a burger and no bun.” put in Kimberly from drive-through. She had curling blond hair and deep blue eyes, made more so by her eyeshadow. “Oh great, here comes a weirdo—Hi, can I take your order?” smiled Heather. Lara looked up and saw Peter Midwinter, in jeans and a T-shirt, and that wild grizzled grey hair and beard incongruously on top. “Ah, there you are, Lara.” he said. In a low voice he muttered, “Can you meet me outside? Something really important just happened. It’s very urgent.” Lara nodded. Her uncle went on to order a cheeseburger, and she rang it up, made change and then told Debbie the manager that she had to use the restroom. The lobby of the Winsted McDonald’s was L-shaped, one leg giving down the west side toward the restrooms, out of sight of the front counter. A side door that let people out but not in, opened at the end onto the western parking lot. An elevated cement walk with a red metal rail ran along that wall of the restaurant from the main entrance to the back, interrupted by steps near the side door. Lara slipped out this and walked into the lot. Her uncle Peter was already out there, swallowing the last of his cheeseburger. Peter Midwinter’s face was grave. “Do you hear that roar?” he said. A strange growling sound was filling the air, coming from the west. Mad River began to run brown. “This way.” He took her hand and headed across the lot. Lara, a little surprised at the contact, tried to pull free, but he didn’t let go. “What is it, Uncle?” said Lara, following him perforce. Like a scene from a dream the world changed around them. It was still hot, but a metallic, sulpherous-smelling sort of hot. The light grew red and queer. Strange rising shapes of darkish rocks as shiny as if in the process of melting, rose on every hand. In the red distance was a glow too bright to look long at. A deep constant rumble filled the dreadful place. Peter Midwinter turned around, and a smile that did not belong in that wise, weathered face grew beneath his beard. “I’m not your uncle.” he said. “Oh, I played the part pretty well, I think. But not anymore.” His face and form began to melt and change. Lara backed away, cold panic rushing through her. “Who are you?” she screamed. A bald ruddy man with hearty features but eyes as cold as those of a reptile stood now before her, still smiling. “You may call me Cornello.” “And who in—tarnation—is Cornello?” She’d nearly said “who in hell.” “Ah, swearing, now are we?” he said. “In fact, your intended word was more accurate. Who is Cornello? What realm of damnation does his consumed soul inhabit, while I drag along the atoms of his body and shape them as I will; adding to them from nearby matter when I need to increase my mass, or allowing them to resume the form they once wore, when I need to walk as man. As I walked when I played the part of dear old Uncle Petey, and laughed within me as I did.” “You only dressed as him to snare me.” snapped Lara. “Ah, so touching, the little niece leaping to her dear uncle’s defence. Peter Midwinter has been dead these fifteen years. A tramp to the end, he met a tramp’s end, shivering to death alone in the hills, too ill to walk into town, ill of spoiled food from a garbage bag. In pace requisite!” “My parents saw him later than that. I spoke to him this winter!” “And he gave you all the lore of the House of Midwinter, I suppose? What is the sign of the head of the Herald…Where aims the arrow of the bow of the Herald…What bears up the Herald, on what does he ride? ''Riddles the dragons have asked one another for ages uncounted, and they smiled as they did. For the Herald is no secret, nor is his fate: the Dragon shall burn him, and with his river be boiled.” “Arheled would have told me!” “And you think this ‘arheled’ is a person that exists, because you saw an odd man in brown leather and heard him drop riddles. Calling, calling, calling. If I can assume any shape that I wish, why would you think that I cannot take his? Come, tell me. What proof do you have that this ‘arheled’ is real, and not merely another of the masks of Carn’hell’nar?” “You lie.” said Lara. “Do I indeed?” smiled Cornello. “Well, come with me. I will show you the proof of what I speak.” He walked forward into the glow, and she was dragged after him as by an unseen rope. He halted in a high chamber. The glow that beat up from the center of it seemed the source of all light and warmth in that chamber; nay, of the entire living Earth. It was like a flickering pillar of white light or energy, beating up from a cauldron of black metal rooted in the floor, as large as a pool, splashing against the roof where it spread out like a canopy of flame. Seven mighty pillars fenced it round, and halfway up each pillar, facing the light, was a seat and chair delved into its’ stone. Four were occupied. Figures draped in robes of great length were held there, fastened by glowing loops of power, their robes flowing down the pillar like impossibly long bodies. One was green, a boy with pale hair. One was in scarlet, a man who might have been young but whose face was lined and drawn with pain as with age; and his hair was bronze. The two on the right were girls. One had dark hair, robed in night-blue; the other was small with curly yellow hair, and her robes were a soft stone-silver. The two pillars on the far side were empty. The pillar closest to her…she could not see, for the throne was on the far side…Slowly she walked around the graven base, like roots of mineral trees, until she could see it. It was empty. “These thrones have been waiting for the Children of the Road for a long time.” Cornello said, his voice now somehow scorching, larger, like the voice of flame. “Years beyond count have we toiled in the bowels of the Field of Arda, slowly encompassing the Earthheart that gives it life, garnishing the tectonic energy of the moving crust, harvesting the thermal power of the inner heats, bending all natural forces to our indomitable will. For here, above the very Heart of the Earth, is the focal point of the Universe, only a small bubble in the Necklace of Eä, but the most important. Above us was where Him that we Hate was Incarnated; but here beneath the earth is where Him that is Mighty will arise in Might, and you will have the honor of being the power that incarnates him.” “There are three empty thrones.” said Lara faintly. Despite the scorching heat she was shivering. “Six of you there are.” Cornello answered. “When Sophia is in the seventh, then it will all be complete. The essence of my Master is nearly all returned to him. You will be the sacrifice, the fuel, the energy He will need to make his incarnation.” “You’re only a man.” Lara said through chattering teeth. Her muscles were cramping clenched and her entire body was shaking. Cornello turned slowly toward her, a weird and awful smile on his fractured face. It was dividing. His skull was cracking into distinct slices, crevasses opening red and gleaming with blood and brain matter. His face had splintered into seven pieces, the awful smile still crossing each piece. Now the pieces were growing upward, thickening, bending and waving, and the tops bulged and sprouted horns, the middle three heads having two and the others one. The arms grew long, bent, and scaled, great claws instead of fingers. His body elongated backwards, a mighty tail twisting and coiling. He slumped forward. His legs bent the wrong way, the knees folding backward like elbows above his sprawling trunk; and somehow this was the most horrible thing yet. There coiled before her a great scarlet dragon. Seven heads bent toward her on long serpentine necks. Seven diadems adorned the seven heads, wrought of seven sparkling metals and set with seven kinds of gems; and on them were wrought signs of power. Immense wings unfolded like fans, scraping the far walls of that mighty chamber. Its’ faces were alien, inhuman, filled with a queer unholy laughter. Forest sat beside Brooke’s bed, gazing at her still face with a sad earnest stare. The glimpse he had seen of where it was she wandered now, like a thousand arches of red and white stars upon a background of shifting violet-black, swam again into his mind. How could they reach her? How could they guide her out? “Forest!” Bell hailed him as he came downstairs. “Is she any different?” He shook his head. Farther.” he said. “She’s farther away now.” “I wish Arheled was here.” said Bell, hugging herself. “I don’t know what to do…I feel like some disaster is just hanging over us, waiting to break.” There was a sharp knocking on the door. Bell looked up. “Now who could that be?” she wondered. There was a pause, and then the deep ringing of the doorbell sounded, ominous and unexpected. “Open up in there, it’s the police!” came voices through the door. The knocking became a pounding. “Open up, or we break it down!” “Get away from the door!” hissed Forest. Bell shot him an alarmed look. “Are they here for us?” she said. He didn’t answer. From outside he could hear the official police voices telling someone that nobody was answering. And then a hearty, but low-pitched, voice spoke in response. Forest went cold all over. It was Cornello’s voice. “Oh, they are in there, all right.” “If you say so…We’ll have the door down in a jiffy.” Cornello laughed to himself. “You can try.” There was a scamper of charging feet. Then a great ''thump and the sound of men falling down. The door had not even quivered. “No one can break down that door.” Cornello’s voice sounded darkly. “It is under the Road.” “Forest! Is someone at the door? And you didn’t even answer it!” Forest’s mom said as she came out of the living room. Forest and Bell acted too late: she was already at the door. “Noooo!!!” they howled, trying to drag her away from it. Even as they did, the door hurled open. Mrs. Lake had turned the knob. In rushed the police. Forest and Bell were thrown to the ground and handcuffs clapped on them. Their mom stared, flabbergasted, as police crashed through her house. Before the children could say a word, duck tape was fastened over their mouths and they were carried out like sacks of potatoes, black bags tied over their heads. Cornello gave Mrs. Lake a wide, empty smile. “Your children are under arrest for aiding and abetting a perpetuator of first-degree murder.” he said. Policemen, having searched the lower floors, headed up the stairs. And came to a sudden stop. Filling the stairwell was a huge figure with black hair, a great ragged mantle falling about him like a pair of folded wings. The Wild Man of Winsted. “This house is under the Road.” he said. The smile froze on Cornello’s face as severed parts of human bodies, still in police grey, fell sloppily down the stairs to rest at his feet. He turned. The Wild Man came slowly into view, eating the remains of the second policeman. Negligently he tossed two bloodied heads with short-shaved hair at Cornello. “You have two Children of the Road.” he said in his great rough voice. “Let them go. And I’ll let you live.” Cornello smiled even more widely. “You’ll let me?” he repeated. “How very considerate of you. Why have you not snatched them free with your awesome powers, pray tell? Can it be because they are beyond your reach—beyond even the power of the Road?” “Don’t be an ass, dragon.” sneered the Wild Man. “Your son thought he could stand against me, too.” “Dragon, is it.” said Cornello softly. He began to laugh. “Oh, I am so much more than that, you ignorant elemental. You think that the substance of the Earth is able to make war with the power that is in me? Can dirt and gravel endure the lava, Wild Man?” “Can the lava exist when its’ heat is forced out of it?” mocked the Wild Man of Winsted. “Does the enduring stone take reck of raindrops? Unless you have strength that can move the very mountains, you cannot move me.” “And why should I need elemental strength, as if I was a bastard lesser son of myself? You have no conception of the level of my being. I swept with my tail the stars from the sky. I bear seven diadems of the seven kings of men. You are a mountain—but I am the breaker of mountains.” His head burst. Necks like seven serpents grew out of it, and upon every neck was a long dragon’s head. “ ''I am the Father of Dragons!” '' Suddenly they were no longer in the house on Wintergreen Island, but on Mad River Dam, the vast dragon all gleaming red crouching above the deep gorge, and on the dike the tiny shape of the Wild Man of Winsted, small against his huge adversary, ragged mantle lifting in the winds. “A simple trick, Wild.” scoffed the dragon. “But if you think that earthporting me and my servants out of that house will keep us from seizing the Stream, you are mistaken. It was opened to me.” “I closed it.” said Wild. “You cannot enter it without leave. The Road will not let you so much as smite the wall with your hand.” “I know that the killer of my son is asleep within that house, Wild Man.” the dragon growled. “Now I have in my power nearly all of the Children, and not even the Road can penetrate the place to which I have taken them.” “You may shut out the Road, but the Warden of the Road cannot be so gainstood.” the Wild Man snarled. “And unless you can stop up the stone or the earth, you cannot keep me from interpenetrating to them. Not even the Weird Sisters have been able to keep me out.” Earth burst in a huge shifting wall. The stone underneath it seized the red dragon and smashed its’ seven heads into the dike. The dragon shattered the stone bonds. The stone instantly fused back together, holding him down. The dragon’s power melted the stone. But the molten stone still would not let go, for lava was but liquid rock and still subject to the Wild Man; and he lanced the Father of Dragons with spears of solid stone. The dragon teleported out of the lava and shapeshifted, healing himself. Lava, still inside the dragon, hardened, and the substance of the Wild Man that was within him ripped open the dragon’s heart. The laughter of the monster shook stones loose from the steep hill behind them. Faintly they could be heard bounding down through the trees to cannon into the lake. “Fool. As simple and thinkless as the substance thou art made of. Do you really think that my body is me, or that I can be killed by cutting me apart? Are you doing battle with a simple thing of earth? Do you fancy yourself still fighting an Embodied?” Out of thin air the red dragon reappeared, bigger than before, settling upon the dike with a crunch of compressing stone. “All that you have seen of me has only been my accidents. Now comprehend, if you can, the strength of my essential!” The dike underneath it came alive as the Wild Man entered it. Black magic fought with the stone of the dike and battled with the essence of the being that was in it; but the dragon-magic could not overcome him. “The Road intended me to stand against whatever threat befalls the structure of the Temple Fell.” the voice of the entity that bore the name of the Wild Man of Winsted thundered from every rock in that valley. “A poor defender I would be, if magic could upon me bite!” The very hills around them shifted, as if fluid, or made out of jello. The Wild Man of Winsted was calling on his fullest nature. The Father of Dragons was swallowed as if by a mouth, and the power of the Road was imbued into that stone, and it sealed him up. Where the Dike had been, there a dome of solid rock now loomed. Mad River, the outlet blocked, backed slowly up in his bed, and the falls dried to a trickle. Telekinesis unmade the living stone. The gas that had once been rock gave a wordless scream as its’ atoms splintered into particles: the agony of the Wild Man of Winsted. With a great flap of his wings the Father of Dragons rose out of the gorge. “Think and remember, Wild, what was done to you this day,” his huge voice roared over the land. “Do not think you can challenge with impunity the intellectual substances. I go now to take the Children of the Road, and not even Arheled will be able to forestall me.” Then the dragon was gone from the air. The gorge of Mad River lay open, freed for the first time in five decades of the mighty work of the toil of men, who thought to stop up with their science the power of the River. Now he raged, unobstructed, down his old bed, and the Falls sounded for the last time greater than they had in all their short existence, and a flood worse than any since 1955 crashed down upon Winsted. Slowly there coalesced into shape a man with long black hair and ragged cloak, who collapsed limply on the bare rock of the exposed hillside. Another man appeared beside him, tall and noble and dignified, a great white cloak blowing out in the wind. “I warned you that it would be presumption to pit yourself against him unaided.” said Arheled. “Would you rather he have taken Brooke, too?” snapped the Wild Man. “At least I actually did something!” “It is not oversmart of you to insist on knowing every reason for every action I commit before you obey my orders.” Arheled replied. “The Road brought you into being; but I was there before the Gods had wrought the Road. I stood in the emptiness and longed for it to fill, and I stood in the chaos and longed for it to struct. The Music is greater than either you or I; but there are powers in the world that are greater still than It.” “I still do not understand why we had to sit back and do nothing.” growled the Wild Man. “They were under the Road!” “And they will never learn to do anything themselves, if we step in like gods every time they stub their toes.” said Arheled. “They were accepted by the Road. Even where it cannot go, nay, where even it’s Warden is stymied, they shall enter, for such is the reason that I have been calling.” “But to let them walk untended in the very belly of the Father of Dragons!” Arheled gave a grim chuckle. “Would Brooke have ever learned to call upon water if Kevin had not violated her? And now the son of the Dragon lies dead. No, Wild. Even as my Lord and Master, so must I: permit great evil to bring about a greater good. Do not fear for my Children. The Road walks within them, and in their persons has entered even the Dragon’s lair. They are mightier than you know.” “They would have to be mighty indeed to overcome one who so easily defeats the Wild Man himself.” “There is a power in them that is great enough to bind even the Father of Dragons.” said Arheled. He turned his ancient face to his companion, and the eyes were filled with a cold light. “But do not think, Wild Man, that I am not watching.”